


In Every Lifetime

by inoubliable



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 15:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20726666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoubliable/pseuds/inoubliable
Summary: A place for all my filled tumblr prompts. Mostly Richie/Eddie. Read the summary and title of each individual chapter to know what you're getting into.





	1. Richie/Eddie, sharing a bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated T.
> 
> For the prompts: 154. “There’s only one bed.” + 164. “Stop teasing me so much.”

It’s kind of a long story. Eddie blames Richie. Richie blames the hotel. The place is booked solid, and the frazzled receptionist’s worn-thin patience is stretched all the thinner by the four separate calls Eddie makes to the front desk, sure there’s a mistake.

There’s no mistake. The reservation says, right there in black and white, _Richie Tozier, room 209._

And room 209 only has one bed.

It’s something Eddie has said more than once. “There’s only one bed.” As if Richie doesn’t _know_. He’s blind as a bat, but the only thing worse than his vision is the idea of being cramped in that tiny bed with Eddie Kaspbrak pressed up against him for an entire night.

They used to do it all the time when they were kids – sleep together, in the most innocent sense of the phrase. Richie would sneak in through the window Eddie left perpetually unlocked just for him, or Eddie would tell his mother he was going to Bill’s and then end up at Richie’s instead. Eddie’s mother had never really liked Bill, but she had liked Richie less. She would have already stroked out if she knew just how much time her son really spent with him. Still spends with him. 

It’s complicated, between them. Always has been. They were friends, and then best friends, and then… well. Something unquantifiable. Never lovers, exactly, but sometimes they’d spend long hours in Eddie’s apartment, making out slowly, some sitcom playing quietly in the background, underscoring the entire encounter with a laugh track to make sure neither of them got too serious about it. Because while it’s always been complicated, it’s never been serious.

Eddie looks serious, now. He’s standing to the side, staring at the bed with his fingers tapped against his lip, like he’s considering the best way to pry the bed into two pieces.

“It’s just for a couple of hours,” Richie says, shouldering his suitcase to deposit it on the bed Eddie hasn’t taken his eyes off of. “We have to get up early anyway. Bev wants to have breakfast, remember?”

Tomorrow, Ben and Beverly are getting married, finally giving in to what’s been building between them since they were twelve years old.

Richie wonders what that’s like.

Eddie doesn’t look at all convinced. “I could sleep on the floor.”

Richie tries not to feel offended, and fails. “You’d rather sleep on the floor than with me?”

Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it, looking sort of pained.

Richie looks pointedly at the carpet, stained in small patches from wall to wall. “I can guarantee they’ve cleaned the sheets more recently than the floor.”

Eddie gives a tiny shudder, his mouth pinching up, the way it always does when he’s disgusted. Richie has seen that look too many times. “I guess you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Richie announces. He opens his suitcase and rifles around for his toothbrush and his pajama pants. “I’m taking a shower. Feel free to join me, since we’re sharing things now.”

“You wish,” Eddie says, which isn’t his best comeback but is absolutely true.

And so they settle in for the night. Richie takes a quick shower and then Eddie takes a much longer one, and they maneuver around each other in the small hotel room without thought, in the way only people who have grown up together can. Eddie knows Richie likes to watch travel documentaries before bed, and he has one turned on when Richie comes out of the bathroom, towel-drying his hair. Richie knows Eddie hates to sleep with a top sheet, claims it’s unnecessary and annoying, so he strips the bed down to just the covers before Eddie finishes his nightly routine. It’s the same sort of thing they would do for each other under any other circumstance, but it feels different. Domestic. Richie has had Eddie in bed before, had him pinned down against the pillows, had his lips kiss-bruised and spit-wet, but he has always gone home afterward.

Never in his adult life has he climbed underneath the covers with Eddie and felt the warmth of his body all along his side and had the intention only to sleep. He feels all of thirteen years old again, and it makes him sort of stupid, sort of playful, because he reaches out and tickles his fingers up under Eddie’s shirt, along the inhale-exhale flex of his ribs.

Eddie goes stiff but he laughs like it’s startled out of him, his stomach shaking underneath Richie’s hand. “What the fuck are you doing?” he demands, but the laughter makes his voice sound soft, amused. Fond.

“I have no idea,” Richie admits, honestly, and he rolls over onto his side. They turned the light out before they crawled into bed, but the curtains over the windows are thin and there’s a streetlight right outside and the long-suffering look Eddie always gives him looks softer in the shadows.

“Better figure it out,” Eddie says. “You tickle me again and I’ll break your fingers.”

“You won’t,” Richie replies. His voice has dipped low without his own permission. “You like my fingers too much.”

Richie sees it play out on Eddie’s face, can practically hear the thought: _oh. So that’s what we’re doing_.

“I’m not going to fuck you in some hotel bed,” Eddie says. His voice is quiet and only a little shaky. “That’s disgusting.”

“Who said anything about fucking?” Richie says. He slides his hand across Eddie’s ribs, spreads his fingers out low on Eddie’s stomach. His little finger just barely dips beneath the waistband of Eddie’s sleep pants. “I’m not trying to fuck you.”

“So what are you trying to do?” Eddie’s voice is even quieter, but shaking much more. He’s always been like this: real easy, barely needs Richie to hint at sex before he’s diving in, head-first. Eddie got called a prude a lot in high school, and then more in college, mostly because he refused to hook up with someone until he knew the exact parameters of their oral hygiene. If they only knew.

“I’m not trying to do anything,” Richie says. And he’s really not. He’s content just like this, big hand braced on Eddie’s stomach, feeling out the way he breathes. He could probably fall asleep like this, lulled by the way Eddie’s stomach rises and falls with every trembling breath.

But he doesn’t feel much like sleeping.

“Richie, come on,” Eddie says, almost a whine.

“Tell me what you want,” Richie says, because he really doesn’t know. Eddie’s sort of flaky like that, might want Richie to fuck him but could just as easily want Richie to leave him alone. Richie realizes, suddenly, that no one is ever gonna really understand Eddie, not even him. But no one is ever going to want to, either. Not the way that he does.

“I want –” Eddie says, then stops. “I just.” And he puts his hand on Richie’s and starts to push it down.

Richie resists. “I said _tell_ me.”

Eddie gives this tiny, broken-up noise. “Stop it,” he says.

Richie stills his hand. “Stop what?”

“Stop teasing me.”

Richie can’t help but laugh, a quiet gust of amused noise that still sounds loud in the hotel-room silence. “I’m not teasing you.”

“You _always_ tease me,” Eddie says. His voice sounds sort of raw, somewhere between a whisper and a groan. Richie has the sudden, unexpected thought that maybe they’re not talking about sex anymore. “Stop teasing me so much.”

“You want me to get serious?” Richie asks, and it sounds much more intense than he means for it to, but maybe that’s the point.

Eddie huffs out a mockery of a laugh. “Since when have you ever been serious?”

“I’m serious about you,” Richie says, which isn’t exactly what he intended to say but is exactly what he means.

Eddie stops breathing for a second, and Richie knows this for a fact, because he feels the gut-punched way all the air leaves Eddie’s body. It’s silent for so long, too long, and Richie’s just about to run down to the receptionist and throw himself at her feet, beg her for another bed, another room, maybe another life.

But then Eddie says his name, heart-wrenchingly sweet, and drags him into a kiss by the scruff of the neck. Richie has kissed Eddie once or twice or a thousand times before, but not like this. Never like this.

“You’re an idiot,” Eddie says, up against his mouth. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Yeah, but you _knew_ that,” Richie says, because he’s been a self-proclaimed moron since they were kids and Eddie knows that better than anyone.

Eddie rolls them over, his body half on top of Richie’s. He pulls back a little, his eyes glittering and his mouth gleaming wet in the low light. “Can’t believe it took you this long,” he says.

Richie stares at him, helpless to do anything else. “Were you _waiting_ on me?”

“Have been since middle school,” Eddie says, casual as anything, like Richie’s heart hasn’t jammed up into his throat. “But thanks for noticing.”

And there’s nothing for Richie to do with that except kiss him again.

They fall asleep together that night, as innocently as they used to as kids. Richie wakes up to the sight of Eddie’s face smushed into the pillow, his hair sticking up at odd angles, his face more relaxed than it ever gets when he’s awake, and his heart aches for a long moment before he remembers he’s allowed to touch. He wakes Eddie up with soft kisses and sweet quiet words, and Eddie isn’t exactly a ray of sunshine in the mornings but he comes alive in slow increments, sighing sweetly and folding his arms around Richie’s neck.

“Come on, Eds,” Richie says quietly. “We’ve gotta get up.”

Eddie cracks his eyes open. “Don’t wanna,” he mumbles. “Wanna stay here.”

And he probably means he wants to stay in bed, but his arms tighten the barest bit around Richie, and maybe he means he wants to stay just there, in that moment, their lips a mere inch apart, their bodies tangled together. Richie, who has been avoiding his own feelings for more than half his life, doesn’t know how to assure him that if it’s up to him, there will be a million more mornings just like this, so he kisses Eddie’s temple and agrees to let him sleep for five more minutes.


	2. Richie/Eddie, mermaids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated T.
> 
> For the prompt: mermaids.

Everyone who’s from Derry has heard about what lives in the quarry.

There’s not a name for them. Those who are unimaginative (or perhaps just lazy) call them mermaids, but that’s not what they are, not really. Mermaids are supposed to live in the ocean - not in some small, dingy, manmade lake.

People come from all over to see them. All sorts of shops have set up downtown: quaint seafood restaurants with voluptuous, finned ladies as their logo. Gift shops with miniature blown-glass keepsakes. A visitor center with a half-dozen pamphlets, each with their own suggestions on the best way to see the creatures. Late at night, some say. Early morning, say others.

Personally, Richie thinks it’s all a big hoax. A tourist trap to drag people to Derry, to blind them with enough supernatural hope so they can’t see what an awful place it really is. They bring their children and entertain them with a few good hours of creature-hunting, and then the kids inevitably get bored of finding nothing, and so they move on. But not before they spend a few dollars in the McDonalds drive thru and at the gas pumps on the edge of town. These people keep Derry alive. They’re paying for a lie, but they don’t have to know that.

Richie works as a tour guide, of sorts. Mostly he keeps an eye on the quarry and picks up litter and occasionally saves a kid or two from drowning. He hates his job. He’s good at his job. He’s been doing this since he was sixteen. He’s almost twenty-eight now. Twelve years of this shit, and he’s never once seen them, these quarry creatures.

He used to believe in them. Every Derry kid did. They all got caught up in the magic, too young and dumb to understand that dull look in their parents’ eye, the way they didn’t quite believe what they were saying. That’s the way he talks now. The parents give him sympathetic half-smiles, but the kids latch on to his every word. He feels bad, sometimes, deceiving them, but it’s just harmless fun. Like Santa Claus.

It’s a Wednesday night in the middle of October, one of the slowest nights of the entire year. School is just starting to get serious. Kids aren’t worried about mermaids when midterms are coming up. Richie hasn’t seen a soul all day, but he kind of likes it like that. It’s peaceful down on the water when no one’s around. Cold already, but not freezing yet. Quiet. Sometimes the wind dips down into the quarry and makes a loud, hollow, miserable noise, but the air is pretty still now.

Which is weird, because he just heard a splash.

That happens, sometimes. There are fish in the quarry, and small turtles. But that sounded sort of big. Well, whatever. Maybe something rolled off the cliff and fell in.

Or maybe someone’s trespassing. Best to check. Just in case.

His boat is a little wooden single-person kayak. It floats perfectly on the water, used to his weight. He’s gotten good at rowing it, even when it’s stormy out and the water acts up. It’s calm now, but there’s that sound again. _Splash! _Far off to his left. The water ripples.

“Someone out there?” he yells, feeling stupidly like an actor in some bad horror film, the one that dies in the first ten minutes before the good shit even starts. He turns his phone’s flashlight on and casts the light onto the water. It reflects, suddenly and unexpectedly, off of someone’s face.

Richie jumps back so hard he almost tips the kayak over. A gasp tears out of his chest, raw-sounding. The person in the water flinches away just as hard, backpedaling in the water, surprisingly graceful. He has nothing to push off of but he somehow manages to dart back a few good feet, out of reach of the light cast by Richie’s phone.

“You’re not supposed to be swimming here,” Richie calls. He sounds braver than he feels. What kind of lunatic goes for a dip in mermaid-infested waters? Not that there really are any mermaids. But this guy can’t know that. He’s not a local. Richie has never seen him before.

The boy doesn’t say anything. Richie only knows he’s still there because he can hear the gentle way he’s treading water. His movement makes small waves lap quietly against the side of the kayak.

“You have to leave,” Richie tries, more forcefully this time. “Don’t make me call the cops.”

Richie can just barely see movement outside the perimeter of his flashlight’s reach. He leans in, trying to make his eyes adjust, and then jumps back again when the guy pops up out of the water, suddenly a few inches from him.

“Jesus!” he gasps, clutching his chest. “Stop doing that!”

The man smiles. “I’m sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t sound very sorry. He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie mutters, his heart still pounding. “Laugh it up. You done messing around now? You’ve played your prank, let’s go.”

The man bobs in the water. His movement is fluid. Seamless. He’s clearly a strong swimmer. Maybe he was one of those weird kids who always wanted to be a mermaid, and now he’s trying to come home to his real family or something. The thought almost makes Richie laugh.

He doesn’t say anything. A handful of strange, silent seconds pass. “Hello?” Richie says eventually, waving his hand in front of the man’s face, careful not to get too close. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” the man says calmly. “You’re very loud.”

Well, this guy is certainly not the first person to ever say so. “And you’re very quiet,” Richie points out. “You’re the one trying to sneak up on me.”

“I wasn’t trying to scare you,” the man says. “I thought you had left. You’re usually gone by now.”

The hair on the back of Richie’s neck stands up. This guy knows his schedule? Jesus. This might be worse than he thought.

Maybe he looks as terrified as he feels, because the man stares at him, cocking his head to the side. “Is something wrong?” he asks. “You don’t look like yourself.”

Fuck. Oh, fuck. “I’m fine,” Richie says faintly. How the hell is he gonna get out of this one? He’s a strong rower, but this guy looks like maybe he’s a stronger swimmer.

“Are you sure?” The man’s eyes are wide and dark, deceptively gentle. He floats closer to the boat and puts his hand on the side of it. Richie is half-afraid he’s going to tip it over, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You look pale, Richie.”

Richie’s heart jams up in his throat. “You know my name?” he squeaks out, pathetically frightened and unable to hide it.

This strange man smiles a strange smile, like he’s humoring Richie. “Of course I do,” he says. “You’re the protector.”

The protector…? What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?

“Dude, I just do what I get paid for,” he says, trying to sound calm and convincing. “I’m not, like, the guardian of the quarry. I don’t give a shit what happens to it.”

The man looks strangely upset by that. His face crumbles into a displeased frown. “That’s not true. You protect it.”

Richie shakes his head. “The only thing I do is make sure no one litters and that people stay in the designated swimming area,” he argues.

The man nods eagerly. “Exactly. You keep us safe.”

Us…?

Richie stares at him. “The only thing I keep alive in here is the wildlife. So unless you’re part fish, I’m not protecting you.”

Something twitches on the man’s face, something both amused and exasperated. “Isn’t that what your people say we are?” he asks. “Part fish?”

God. Oh, God. This guy is cracked.

“Are you trying to say,” Richie says, his voice shaking just the slightest bit, “that you’re a mermaid?”

The man laughs. “Of course not,” he says, and Richie would be relieved except he follows it up with, “That’s not what we’re called.”

Richie probably shouldn’t encourage this delusion, but he can’t resist. “What are you called then?”

The man considers the question. “Eddie,” he finally decides.

Richie’s eyebrows furrow. “You’re called Eddies?”

The man shakes his head. “No. _I’m _called Eddie.”

“Oh,” Richie realizes. “That’s your name.”

Eddie nods happily. “There are others,” he says, more talkative now, perhaps pleased that Richie is humoring him. “Stan and Bill and Bev and Mike and Ben.”

“Those are pretty normal names,” Richie points out.

Eddie smiles. “You couldn’t pronounce my real name,” he says. “We stole these names from humans. We didn’t think you would mind.”

Richie nods like he understands. God, he has a headache. He just wants to get this nut out of the water so he can go home. “Where are you friends?” he asks, just in case.

“Oh, they’re hiding,” Eddie says dismissively. “They’re scared of you.”

Richie almost laughs. Of all the ludicrous ideas, that one almost beats out mermaids. “Why? I’m not scary.”

“_I_ know that,” Eddie says. “You’re good. But we’re not supposed to talk to humans.”

“Why not?” Richie asks.

Eddie levels him with a flat look like it’s a stupid question. “Because they want to hurt us,” he says. His voice doesn’t sound playful anymore. Instead it’s melancholy. Heart-wrenching. Ancient, like he’s actually much older than he appears. “They come here to find us, pretending they would be happy just to see us. But all they really want is to hunt us.” He peers at Richie and his expression suddenly clears. “You’re not like that, though.”

Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe Richie never really woke up this morning. Maybe he fell and knocked himself out and and this is all in his subconscious. Maybe this is a feverish hallucination. Maybe he’s dead and this is some really weird afterlife.

He pinches himself, just to be sure. Yep, still hurts. Eddie watches the movement, looking confused, and then understanding passes over his face.

“You don’t believe me,” he says. He doesn’t sound upset about it, but Richie is still half-afraid he’s some kind of lunatic ready to snap, so he quickly shakes his head.

“Of course I believe you!” he protests, but he must not sound very convincing, because Eddie latches both hands onto the side of the boat. _He’s going to tip it_, Richie realizes frantically and he tries to brace himself for the cold water. But nothing happens.

Well, nothing except that Eddie lets his body float away from the body, so that it’s almost horizontal with the surface. His head and chest are still above water, held up by his grip on the kayak, and his back and shoulders are strong and muscled and bare, but Richie isn’t looking at that.

Richie isn’t looking at that because there, past his waist, where there should be legs, there’s… there’s a tail. It’s long and wet and shining, reddish-brown, flecked with gold. It is scaly and thick and pulsing gently, keeping Eddie’s body afloat. It starts somewhere near where his hips should be, vaguely flesh-colored at first, and ends with a fin, split and delicate-looking. It comes up out of the water and then falls back with a heavy splash, and then disappears underneath the surface as Eddie rights himself again.

Eddie, for his part, looks rather smug. “I told you,” he says.

Richie opens his mouth to say something. Anything. But slowly, steadily, his vision starts to blur and go black. He doesn’t realize he’s passing out, and there’s no time to save himself from falling back into the water. He hears a shout and then a splash, and then, right before everything goes totally black, he feels someone grab him, solid and strangely warm, holding him up, keeping his face from sinking below the surface.


	3. Richie/Eddie, soulmate timer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated T.
> 
> For the prompt: AU where everyone has a timer that counts down to the moment you meet your soulmate.

_Twenty two days. Six hours. Forty three minutes. Nine seconds._

_Twenty two days. Six hours. Forty three minutes. Eight seconds._

_Twenty two days. Six hours. Forty three minutes. Seven seconds._

“Mr. Kaspbrak!”

Eddie jumps. He jerks straight up in his seat, then slumps down again when he realizes everyone is staring at him. Mrs. Hawkins is leading the charge, peering down her beakish nose at him, her eyes small and shrewd. “Do you plan to pay attention to my lesson?” she demands. “Or do I have to take away your watch?”

Eddie automatically covers his watch with his hand, shielding the face from view. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hawkins,” he mutters dutifully. He keeps his watch protectively hidden until she looks away, and even then he puts his hands in his lap, under the table, out of sight.

He can’t resist giving the clock mounted on the wall above her head one last, fervent glance.

_Twenty two days. Six hours. Forty one minutes. Thirty six seconds._

_–_

Watches are government-issued. Everyone is assigned one at birth, but you’re not eligible to obtain it until you’re at least thirteen. It’s one of those weird, arbitrary American laws, like how you can join the military at eighteen but can’t have a beer until you’re twenty one. No one really knows why it’s that way. Maybe the government doesn’t want you to spend your formative years pining for something that might not happen for years. That would make sense. Eddie got his watch on his fifteenth birthday and he’s only been waiting a year, but sometimes it already feels like it’s been a thousand.

He was the second one of his friends to get one. Bill got his first, the leader as always, on his thirteenth birthday. _Twelve years_, his watch had said, so far off it hadn’t even said anything about months or days or seconds. It had been disappointing in some strange way, because twelve years felt like an entire lifetime, but it was also thrilling to know that it was _real_, that someone was out there waiting and wanting.

He hadn’t missed the way Bill had looked the slightest bit jealous, though, when he had unboxed his own watch and his timer had only said _one year, seven months, sixteen days._

And then Bev had gotten hers, and the timer had already been zeroed out. She and Ben had shared a shy, private glance, and the rest of them had quickly figured it out. Bev had kissed Ben. Ben was Bev’s soulmate. It had all been confirmed when Ben had gotten his own blank watch two weeks later.

That’s how it works. The timer isn’t counting down the minutes until you _meet_ your soulmate. That would be too easy. No, the timer ticks down and down and down, and when it finally, finally clicks to zero, you’re kissing the person you’re meant to be with. True love’s kiss, right? Eddie personally thinks the government has watched too many Disney movies, but he still stares at the face of his watch more often than not, counting down the seconds.

He has no idea who his soulmate might be. Probably someone from Derry, given that he only has a few weeks left to wait. It could be anyone. Not Bill, of course, and certainly not Ben, but maybe one of the other Losers. Maybe Stan, or Mike. Maybe Richie.

Eddie doesn’t allow himself to hope. But…

It’s not altogether that likely that it’s one of his friends. There are plenty of people who don’t have soulmates yet. Many of them don’t even have a watch. It’s expensive to get one. A lot of people can’t afford it, like Stan and Mike.

And some people just aren’t interested. Like Richie. “I don’t need a stupid watch to tell me I enjoyed a kiss,” he says whenever he’s asked. “My dick can tell just fine.” He’ll grab his crotch and say, “It’s never steered me wrong before.” And then the conversation will end, because everyone knows Richie is relentless about dick jokes and it’s best if they stop it before it really starts.

Eddie wonders, sometimes, if Richie really has kissed anyone before, the way he claims he has. Does he press his mouth against theirs, hoping their watch would zero out and start to beep? Or does he really not care?

Eddie can’t imagine not caring. He cares a whole fucking lot.

–

Those last twenty two days don’t pass quickly, but they do eventually pass.

_One hour. Twenty six minutes. Thirteen seconds._

He’s standing in front of his bathroom mirror, fucking with his hair. There’s a party tonight. Eddie isn’t normally much of a party-goer, but this is it. This is the night. His soulmate is going to be at that party, and Eddie is going to be kissed by him. The thought makes goosebumps rise all up and down his arms. He’s so excited he’s shaking.

Richie’s supposed to pick him up. Well, actually, Bill was supposed to be their designated driver, but his car is a piece of shit and no one trusts the _chhht-chhht-chhht_ sound it makes, so Ben is stuffing Bev and Bill and Mike and Stan in his tiny two-door sedan. Richie, who just crested six-foot with no signs of stopping, and Eddie, who can’t stand to breathe in the shared air of that many people, elected to drive themselves. Well, Eddie elected to make Richie drive. He doesn’t have his own car. Richie’s truck is a piece of junk, but he’s slowly fixing her up with the money he didn’t spend on a watch. Eddie’s been helping him. He’s kind of proud of the progress they’ve made. Her brakes don’t even squeak that bad anymore, and she’s only rusted in a few small places.

Still, Eddie can hear her from a block away, rumbling down his street. He rushes down the stairs, calls goodbye to his mother, and books it to the end of the driveway before she can catch him. He didn’t exactly get her permission to go out, but she probably won’t be too mad as long as he gets home before curfew.

He flings himself into the passenger side and Richie slams on the accelerator before he’s even fully inside, like he’s afraid they’re being chased. As if Eddie’s mother could peel herself out of her armchair that fast. Still, it’s sort of exhilarating. The driver’s side window is down and the wind whips the hair that Eddie spent so long perfecting, but it’s worth it because Richie has his music turned up way too high and he smiles over at Eddie and the minutes on Eddie’s watch are ticking down and Eddie feels alive.

The party is at Sheridan Keener’s house in the good part of town, and the streets are already lined with cars. Richie eases his truck in behind an ugly brownish-orange Toyota that Eddie sort of recognizes from the student lot. He cuts the engine, and though faint music pulses from the Keener house, it’s suddenly very quiet without Richie’s music blasting.

“Well,” Richie says, and he fishes a cigarette out of his pocket. It’s a little crumpled but it lights up just fine. “Tonight’s the night.” He looks at Eddie’s watch out of the corner of his eye.

_Hope it’s not you if you’re gonna taste like ash_, Eddie wants to say, but he doesn’t. It’s a bad joke. Instead, he hums an agreement and gets out of the car. They walk together to the door, and then Richie tosses his cigarette into the shrubbery and Eddie lets him into the house and they’re swept into the foyer, greeted by throbbing music and the sharp smell of alcohol and the dim buzz of a hundred different conversations.

They get separated at some point, but Eddie tries not to notice. He waves at Ben from across the room, who points at his wrist and then gives Eddie a thumbs-up. He’s not the only one who’s been counting down. His friends are all excited for him. He wonders if they feel nauseous at all, the way he does.

After awhile, he goes into the kitchen to make a drink. A few people are standing around, including a cute boy standing alone in the corner, sipping from a solo cup. Eddie’s heart stops, then starts pounding. That’s him.

But, no. It’s too early. He still has thirty-four minutes.

Then again, it’s not like Eddie was going to just walk up and plant one on him. Maybe he’s supposed to start a conversation. Maybe it’ll go well, and they’ll end up in some private room upstairs, leaning closer and closer, their lips about to brush…

A girl comes into the kitchen. The boy looks up, sees her, and smiles. He’s even more handsome when he smiles, but Eddie has to look away when he drags the girl in for a kiss.

Not him, then.

It’s awful at first, and then it’s downright agonizing. He keeps looking around the room, trying to determine which of these people might be the person his soul was made for. Nobody stands out in particular. The only people Eddie really notices are his friends. Stan is on the couch, holding Bev’s drink so she can arm-wrestle Mike over the coffee table. He lets her win, and they all laugh about it. Eddie is smiling to himself when Richie suddenly appears at his elbow.

“Having fun?” he asks, leaning close to be heard over the music.

“Sure,” Eddie says, noncommittal. He hasn’t talked to a single person. _Seventeen minutes_. He’s starting to get nervous.

Richie elbows him gently. “Stop thinking so hard,” he says. “Just let it happen.”

Like Eddie has any other choice. The clock is ticking down, whether he wants it to or not.

Richie rolls his eyes, apparently not satisfied by whatever expression is on Eddie’s face. “Come on,” he says, and slings an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “Let’s find something to take your mind off it.”

“Good luck,” Eddie mutters, but he goes where Richie leads him, same way he always does.

They end up in the basement, which is an entirely different atmosphere than the living room. It’s quiet down here, and hazy. This is where all the stoners go to toke, Eddie realizes, and he almost turns right back around but, well. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. It would certainly calm his nerves.

But Richie doesn’t pull out a joint like Eddie expects. Instead, he guides Eddie into the middle of the room, where a loose circle of people have gathered. Eddie recognizes some of them, but most of them are strangers. Richie sits down like he owns the place, though, his sprawling legs taking up too much room. Eddie sits across from him, leaving enough space in middle of the lazy circle for the small glass bottle sitting there.

Just as Eddie settles in, a pretty blonde girl reaches out and spins it. It whirls around several times, making a horrible racket against the concrete floor, but then finally starts to settle. It eventually stops, the neck pointed at a black-haired boy, his eyes so heavy they almost look closed. He perks up a little when the girl climbs into his lap, pressing a kiss to his mouth.

Eddie realizes all at once what’s going on.

He glares at Richie. Richie smirks back. Of course he does. He’s an asshole.

Eddie should leave. He should get up and walk out. His first kiss shouldn’t be like this, because of some stupid game with a bunch of strangers that stink like pot. But…

Well, his soulmate is probably in this circle. That’s why he’s here, right? He’s going to spin the bottle, and it’s going to land on someone, and they’re going to kiss, and his watch is going to start beeping.

He glances at it. _Nine minutes. _His heart pounds.

The black-haired boy spins the bottle, and it lands on a redhead Eddie recognizes from his history class. She wipes her mouth after the boy kisses her, then spins for herself. The bottle points at a brunette girl and both of them giggle before they kiss each other on the cheek. Then the brunette spins and it lands on a boy wearing a backwards baseball cap.

It goes like this for some time. Eddie pretends to watch the game, but for the most part, he stares at his watch. _Six minutes. Five minutes. Four minutes._

The pretty blonde who started the game kisses one of the other girls. The boys cheer for them, and the blonde draws away looking satisfied by the attention. She spins, and then the bottle lands on Richie.

Eddie stops staring at his watch.

She smiles at Richie, and he grins back at her. She scoots close to him and leans in, her hair falling almost like a curtain around their faces, but Eddie can just make out the way Richie dodges at the last second and kisses her cheek instead. Something unravels in his chest. He doesn’t know why it matters, but somehow, it does.

Richie spins and lands on Evan, a guy from Eddie’s homeroom. Richie grins, hooks his arm around Evan’s neck, and drags him in so he can plant a sloppy kiss on Evan’s forehead. Evan shoves him away, but he’s laughing about it.

Then he takes the bottle in his hand and spins it.

It lands on Eddie.

Eddie’s heart stops. He doesn’t have to look at his watch to know there’s only a couple minutes left. Is this it? Is Evan his soulmate? He tries to picture it, but for some reason, he can’t. It’s probably because he’s said maybe six words to Evan all year. Will that change, once they’ve kissed? It will have to, right? You have to be able to talk to your soulmate. What’s the point, otherwise?

But then Evan leans forward, quickly kisses Eddie’s cheek, and falls back into his place in the circle.

Eddie’s watch doesn’t beep. He glances at it.

_One minute_.

This is it. Holy shit, this is _it_.

He reaches out with a shaking hand. Should he spin it hard, or soft? Should he try to time it right, or should he just close his eyes and hope for the best?

Should he just get up and run out before everything has a chance to change?

He spins. His eyes, without his own permission, jam closed. His stomach swoops, and his chest is tight. His mouth dries out. He can’t decide if he’s going to throw up or if he’s going to pass out. Either seems entirely likely.

The bottle slowly comes to a stop.

Eddie opens his eyes.

For a disconcerting second, he’s confused. The bottle is pointed at himself. Except… no. No it’s not. That’s the bottom of it. The top is aimed in the opposite direction, directly in front of him, at… at…

“It’s you,” Eddie realizes.

Richie, sitting across from him, looks just as surprised. His eyes are wide, made all the more huge by his glasses. But then, slowly, he smiles. “Come on, Eds,” he says, and he gets up onto his knees, shuffling forward across the circle so he’s in Eddie’s personal space. Richie looms over him, smelling like cologne and cigarettes and some of the best memories of Eddie’s life. “You don’t wanna keep fate waitin’, do you?”

And then he puts his hand on Eddie’s chin, tilts his face up, and leans down to kiss him. It’s a shallow kiss, dry and chaste, and it only lasts for a handful of seconds.

Just long enough for Eddie’s watch to zero out and start to beep.


	4. Stan/Mike, accidentally coming out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated M.  
Background Richie/Eddie, Bev/Ben.
> 
> For the prompts: 57. “Is that my shirt?” + 177. “You’re so beautiful.”
> 
> This is way sillier than the title suggests.

Beverly shows up late, and she’s wearing a huge Hawaiian shirt that falls to her knees, several inches past the frayed hem of her denim shorts.

“Is that my shirt?” Richie asks, squinting at her.

“And your socks,” she says happily, lifting her leg so they can check them out. The socks go halfway up her calves and are patterned with neon-green pot leaves. They clash horribly with the shirt and Stan would probably get a tension headache if Richie showed up wearing that, but Beverly looks cute in anything. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Richie gasps, staring at her like she’s some sort of unfashionable angel.

Bev grins at him. “You left your clothes at my house last weekend.”

Richie’s eyes go comically wide behind his glasses. He looks at Eddie. “Baby, it’s not what you think.”

Eddie doesn’t even look up from his phone. “If she wants you, she can have you.”

“I don’t want him,” Beverly says immediately, and goes to sit on Ben’s lap.

“Guess you’re stuck with me,” Richie says, leaning his head onto Eddie’s shoulder, batting his eyelashes.

“Guess so,” Eddie says back with a big sigh, but then he looks over and brushes his mouth against Richie’s, soft and tender. Bill pretends to gag, but it’s kind of sweet, the way Richie goes pink and pleased.

“Did I miss anything?” Bev asks, sitting sideways across Ben, her legs propped up on the arm of the chair.

“Not much,” Stan tells her. “Just the dumbest conversation of all time.”

She tilts her head in his direction. “Dumber than the time we convinced Richie that Australia doesn’t exist?”

Stan nods. Richie sits up.

“It’s not dumb!” he insists. “We’re trying to figure out which of us has the biggest dick energy. Stan’s just mad because he’s not winning.”

“Dick energy…?” Bev repeats, slowly. She looks confused but there’s a smile lurking near the corner of her mouth.

Richie nods emphatically. “Yeah. Don’t worry, Bev.” He leans in like he’s sharing a secret. “I said yours was biggest.”

“Everyone agreed,” Bill tells her.

Bev looks both pleased and cautious. “And that’s… a good thing, right?”

“Yes!” Richie says. “It’s, like, a confidence thing.”

“So it doesn’t have anything to do with having a big dick?” she asks.

Richie shakes his head. “Anyone can have big dick energy.”

“Besides,” Stan says, without thinking. “If this was about actually having a big dick, Mike would have all of you beat.”

There’s a sudden silence, just long enough for Stan to realize what he just said. He jerks upright and, without meaning to, looks across the room at Mike.

Mike, for his part, looks very much like he’s trying not to smile.

“Stanley Uris,” Eddie says, and he has finally looked up from Candy Crush. “You make it sound like you know from experience.”

Stan doesn’t say anything, which actually says everything.

“Stan the _man_,” Richie gasps, clutching a hand to his chest. “You and Mikey? Really? God, I’ve had dreams just like this.”

Eddie hits his shoulder, hard enough to make him yelp. Beverly very poorly covers her laugh with a cough.

Bill sighs. He’s staring up at the ceiling as if asking God _why me_? “Are all my friends sleeping together?” he asks no one.

“Yes,” they all say at once, including Mike and Stan, who are still looking at each other.

_I’m sorry_, Stan mouths at him.

“It was only a matter of time before we told you guys,” Mike says, silently accepting the apology. “We don’t keep things from each other.”

“We don’t?” Richie asks. “Does that mean I can watch you guys bang?”

“Beep beep, Richie!” everyone says, and then they all devolve into laughter while Richie grumbles to himself about the unfairness of it all.


	5. Ben/Stan, getting together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated T. 
> 
> For the prompt: how do you think Stan and Ben get together?  
Includes mentions of ot7.

It doesn’t just start. It builds.

Stan is hard to fall in love with. He’s particular. He’s bossy. He has a strange sense of humor, and sometimes he sounds happy when he’s sad and sad when he’s happy. He can’t stand for his pants to be creased, and if he spots a stain on his shirt he’ll stare at it all day. He’s scary smart, quick-witted. His tongue is sharp and his patience is short, and for being the most intelligent person Ben knows, sometimes he’s really clueless.

Because somehow, somehow, somehow, Ben has fallen in love with him. And Stan hasn’t even had the audacity to notice.

In Stan’s defense, it’s not like Ben has made it obvious. It’s not like he’s following at Stan’s heels, holding his textbooks for him, staring at him like he hung the moon. In fact, Ben tries not to look at Stan too much at all. It’s too distracting. He doesn’t know what happened, and he doesn’t know why, but sometimes Stan’s hair falls in his face and Ben’s fingers wish so desperately to push it back that they ache.

Ben’s been aching a lot, lately. Mostly his heart. And yeah, maybe that’s melodramatic. Maybe he’s just being artsy and sensitive. Maybe he needs to jot his feelings on the back of a postcard, shove it in Stan’s bag, wait for him to figure it out. It worked last time, didn’t it? Might have taken awhile, but at least Bev _knows_ how he feels about her. Stan doesn’t have a clue.

Bev, for her part, thinks the whole thing is hilarious. “Are you going to fall in love with all of us?” she teases, her head in his lap, smile bright and amused. 

Ben wants to tell her that yeah, he probably will. Probably already has, if he’s honest. But he doesn’t know how to explain that his heart is much too big and much too full and there’s a special place there for each of them, for Bill’s glass-ice eyes and Richie’s twisted teeth, for Mike’s dark stubble and Eddie’s wheezing laugh. For her freckles. For the often-serious slant of Stan’s mouth. Ben is a little bit in love with all of them, but there’s no way to explain that with his limited teenage vocabulary, so he lets her think it’s just a crush. Lets her think it isn’t serious. Lets her think it will go away.

It doesn’t go away.

And two years later, they’re about to graduate. Ben’s got it marked on his calendar and everything, circled three times in bold red marker. Just a month and a half, then sweet summer. Then… well. Ben doesn’t like to think too far past that.

Stan’s leaving, though, whether he thinks about it or not. They all are, in some way. Off to college. Off to real life – as if it gets realer than this. As if there could possibly be anything more visceral and raw and _real_ than the Lucky Seven, than the humming invisible thread that connects them so closely, but has never been tested against time and distance before. Ben doesn’t like to think it will snap, but it might. And he knows, he just _knows_, that if the thread breaks for anyone, it’s going to be for Stan.

If Stan leaves Derry, Ben is sure he’s never going to see him again.

So yeah. He doesn’t like to think about it.

They hang out, both with the Losers and alone. Of course they do. Stan is one of his very best friends in the entire world. He likes spending time with Stan. Not even in a romantic way. He likes sitting at the library, doing homework together, their feet accidentally knocking when they shift. He likes following Stan through the woods, listening to him breathlessly name the birds that flutter from treetop to treetop above their heads. He likes watching tv together in his living room, or listening to records in Stan’s. He likes Stan. As a friend. As a person.

But that isn’t to say that he likes everything about Stan. He’s not some mindless idiot blinded by love. He knows that sometimes Stan says things he doesn’t mean, and he can be downright vicious when he’s hungry. He knows Stan is sorta selfish sometimes, like when he takes the last soda out of the fridge without asking if Ben wants it. He knows Stan isn’t very empathetic, doesn’t realize when he’s hurting someone’s feelings until it’s too late.

Ben knows that last one especially well, because Stan has been talking about the lack of potential romantic partners in Derry for the last half-hour. And Ben knows he’s not hiding his feelings very well, because he practically flinches every time Stan brings up a potential candidate. But Stan doesn’t notice. Because he doesn’t care. Or because he’s an asshole. Or because he’s just really, really, really oblivious.

“I just want someone to be with,” Stan sighs. He’s not looking at Ben, which might explain it, because Ben knows his thoughts have got to be written all over his face. _Me. Be with me_.

But he’s gotten it together by the time Stan glances over, and he nods sympathetically instead. “Yeah. I get that.”

Stan makes a sound that almost sounds like a snort, except it’s more delicate than that and somehow more offensive. “You have Bev,” he points out.

Ben very nearly rolls his eyes. He’s getting sick of explaining this. “Bev is my platonic life partner,” he says, and then pauses, because well. Not entirely platonic. He lost his virginity to Beverly, and they still sometimes make out in the quiet sticky early-morning hours when she sneaks into his bedroom, but. His relationship with Bev is unquantifiable. Indescribable. Sort of like his relationship with all the Losers. There’s no good way to explain that he feels a connection to each and every one of them that transcends friendship, and so he shakes his head. “No one has Bev,” he says instead. “Bev is un-have-able.”

Stan looks like he wants to argue, then tilts his head, conceding the point. “Still. You have _someone_. If you wanted company in the middle of the night, you could call her.”

“I could call any of you,” Ben points out, hoping in a big way that Stan won’t tell him otherwise.

Stan hums. “Well. That’s true.” He says it reluctantly, like maybe he doesn’t believe it. Or maybe he just doesn’t like admitting defeat. Then he laughs, one of his strange humorless laughs. “In that case, maybe I should date one of the Losers, then.”

Ben’s heart throbs painfully.

“Maybe,” he says, but his voice sounds kind of faint.

“Who should it be?” Stan’s grinning, laying on his stomach across Ben’s living room couch. Ben is on the floor near his knees, looking up at him, his stomach dropping somewhere below the basement. “Can’t be Richie. I’d kill him.”

Ben makes a soft, agreeing noise, but doesn’t offer any other input. He doesn’t know what to say. _You could date me_! he wants to say, but won’t.

Stan rolls onto his side, facing Ben, propping his head up with his hand. “Maybe Bill,” Stan says, his voice taking on a considering tone. “Or Mike.”

He doesn’t offer explanation, and Ben doesn’t really want it. All he knows is Stan hasn’t said _or you_, and his entire body feels heavy and hurt as fuck.

But he’s a glutton for punishment, so he opens his mouth and hears himself say, without permission, “Why them?”

Stan looks at him for a moment. His face is impassive, but he looks like that a lot when he’s thinking. It’s why people think he’s cold, even though he’s one of the warmest people Ben has ever met.

“They’d be good to me,” Stan finally decides. He’s talking slow, like he’s measuring the words. “They’re my friends. They’d want me to be happy.”

_I’m your friend_, Ben thinks, with such intensity he’s surprised at himself. _I would be good to you_.

Stan smiles, then. It’s playful and pretty, and Jesus Christ, Ben is going to combust. “Maybe I should just steal Bev from you,” he teases.

Ben has every intention of reminding Stan that Bev cannot be stolen from him, because Bev is not really his in the first place.

What comes out instead is, “Or maybe you should steal me from Bev.”

Stan blinks. He’s a fast-thinker, which means it can’t be more than a couple of seconds before his surprise melts into thoughtful comprehension, but it feels like a whole entire eternity to Ben. He’s just about to jump up and run out of his own house when Stan tilts his head very slowly to the right.

Ben’s entire body seizes up. He knows that expression. He’s watched Stan in quiet moments like these for years now. Stan could have tilted his head to the left. He does that sometimes, when he’s puzzling over a math problem, or trying to figure out how to tell Richie off in a way that won’t end with him as the target of a prank.

But no. He tilted to the right. The way he did when they watched Madonna music videos as kids. The way he did when the girl from their English class touched his wrist and asked to borrow a pen. The way he does when a cute boy holds the door for him, or when someone puts their hand on the small of his back in the crush of the first-bell crowd.

That’s… that’s interest. Stan is interested.

Ben has seen that look more than a few times. It has never once been directed at him. His hands are already shaking.

“I…” he says, mouth working without thought. “I, uh…”

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Stan sits up. His legs are hanging off the couch now, so close they’re brushing Ben’s arm. If he wasn’t already trembling, that would probably do it, because he’s ridiculous and dramatic and so touch-starved for Stan it’s not even funny.

“Do you want me to steal you away from Bev?” Stan asks. His voice is very even. Kind of low. Quiet. _Intimate_, Ben’s brain supplies, and he shivers just a little.

But no. No, that’s not what Ben wants. He doesn’t want to do this, to drive this weird wedge between them, to imply that by giving any of himself to Stan, he’s betraying Beverly.

So he shakes his head.

The incline of Stan’s head starts to tilt left. Ben is going to lose his chance. He’s going to lose this brief spark of interest, going to push Stan away, going to be left with nothing but the memory of the way Stan looked at him for those slow few seconds.

He can’t let that happen. Not now. Not after all this time.

He takes a breath. Then another. Then another, and then he reaches out and puts his hand on Stan’s knee. Stan’s wearing pants, pressed to perfection as always, but Ben can still feel the heat of his skin even through them.

“I want you to want me,” he says. It’s not actually as hard to say as he thought it would be. “I don’t want you to want me because I’m Bev’s, or because I’m a challenge, or because you’re lonely. I want you to want _me_.” He drops his eyes, then forces himself to look up again. If he’s going to be rejected, he’s not going to be a punk about it. “I want you to want me,” he says, again, his voice trembling just a little, “the way that I want you.”

Stan’s cheek dimples a little when he smiles. His eyes are bright, shining hazel under the overhead light. His hand covers Ben’s, pinning it there on his knee, and his palm is warm and grounding. “You want me,” he says. It’s not a question, but Ben nods helplessly. Stan inhales slowly, then gives a tiny shuddering sigh, dream-like. “Thank God,” he says. “I was starting to think it was all in my head.”

_Wait, what? _Ben wants to say, but there’s no time, because Stan is kissing him.

Stan is kissing him.

Stan is _kissing_ him.

Something shudders hard in Ben’s chest and his hand flexes on Stan’s knee. He’s caught by surprise, but there is not a moment of hesitation. He kisses Stan back like he was meant to, like this was where he was always supposed to end up, their lips locked in the middle of his living room in broad daylight on a Thursday afternoon.

Ben feels that tiny, tight thread, the one that thrums under the surface of his skin, the one connected to all of the Losers, the Lucky Seven, his best friends, his soulmates. Stan’s mouth pulls away from his with a tiny wet noise, but the thread tightens and they’re drawn helplessly back together. It feels strong as steel now. Impenetrable. Unbreakable.

Ben’s heart is pounding in his chest, hard and fervent. He reaches up, cups the side of Stan’s neck with his hand, holds him steady. He can feel Stan’s throbbing pulse beneath his palm. It beats the same wild rhythm as Ben’s own.


	6. Ben/Bev, pegging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated E.
> 
> Heavily inspired by the song [Do You Take It? by the Wet Spots](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=POIq-w0sBLg).

Ben can’t help but wonder how he got here.

Not _here_ here, as in his own bed, on his hands and knees, head hanging so low it’s almost against the mattress, sweaty and naked and trembling. He knows how all of that happened, still has the sound of Bev’s soft voice telling him to _turn over_ echoing in his ears, somehow louder than the rush of blood. She’s behind him now, one hand on his hip, holding him steady. Her other hand is probably… probably…

He chances a quick glance behind himself and, yup, yeah, that’s exactly what he thought. Bev has the hand she’s not touching him with braced around her dick, plastic and purple, holding it where it juts proudly from the faux-leather harness strapped around her hips. She’s stroking it, her hand wet with lube, shiny under the overhead light. The movement makes a slick, repetitive noise, the kind of sound he’s familiar with from years of fervently jerking himself off, the kind of sound that makes his ears burn red. He wishes he could reach one of the pillows. He wants to hide his face in it.

He’s shaking. Partly because he’s kind of cold. He took a shower earlier, before Bev showed up on his doorstep with an overnight bag and an ecstatic smile, and his hair is still damp, tickling around his ears. He should have turned the heat up, but he wasn’t in the right mindset to do a whole lot of planning that didn’t involve stuffing a tentative finger inside himself in the shower, desperate to prove to himself that there was nothing to worry about. It didn’t really work, because he wasn’t sure if it was okay to use conditioner _there_, and so he had pushed inside with nothing but water easing the way, and the friction had hurt.

But then Bev had opened him up for herself, and that hadn’t hurt one bit. It had been strange, sure, and maybe a little unpleasant at first when he couldn’t quite figure out how to breathe right. But she had been patient and sweet, kneeling there between his thighs, kissing the insides of them, whispering nice things about his body that didn’t feel like consolation. Bev likes the way he looks when he’s naked. Bev is an absolute fox, a veritable goddess, and she likes looking at him, likes kissing his pudgy stomach and his meaty thighs. Something about that makes Ben feel shy, impossibly soft, like maybe Bev could ask him to do anything and he’d do it without hesitation.

Which might explain all of this, except. Well. It hadn’t really been Bev who brought it up, had it?

“I want you to fuck me,” Ben had told her one day last week, apropos of nothing, and he had only blushed a little.

If Bev had been anyone else, she might have been confused, might have thought he meant something else entirely, might have undressed and let him push between her thighs, and he wouldn’t have ever corrected her because trying to explain it would have been too mortifying for words, but Bev was Bev. She had looked at him and somehow understood exactly what he meant, and she had smiled at him and said, “Okay.”

And now, here they are, braced together on the bed, Bev behind him, between his knees, the head of her fake cock finally, finally, finally pushed against where he’s open and aching. She’s moving her hips, rubbing the plastic ridge against him, and God, he didn’t know it was possible to feel this much. There’s barely any pressure behind the movement, but there is intent, and every time she shifts there’s a hot shock of heat up his entire spine.

“Please,” he whispers.

She puts her hand on the small of his back, and he knows realistically that she doesn’t have very big hands, but they feel suddenly huge, all-consuming. “You don’t have to beg,” she assures him. “I’ll give you what you want.”

Ben shivers, full-body, and can’t help the way he pushes back against her. She laughs, low and husky, and digs her fingers into the meat of his hip.

“Stay still,” she admonishes gently, and then starts to push inside.

It’s… oh God. It’s both everything and nothing like he expected. It doesn’t hurt, but the pleasure is strange, shocking, almost on the wrong end of too much. His arms give out and he ends up with his shoulders against the mattress, his spine arched high, his ass held in place by Bev’s guiding hands.

“Oh,” she murmurs, soft and delighted. “That’s nice.”

Nice isn’t the right word. There _isn’t_ a word for the way he feels, not in any language ever. She keeps pushing, and his body parts slowly for her. She’s only about halfway inside, but he feels like she’s all the way in his throat.

She moves her hand up his back, near his shoulder blade. “Ben,” she says, sounding both breathless and intense. “Breathe.”

He realizes suddenly his lungs are burning. He heaves in a huge breath, and then releases it, and something about that makes everything that much more intense. “Oh, fuck,” he whines, rubbing his cheek against the sheets, a rough counterpoint to the smooth slide of her fitting the rest inside. Her thighs are warm, pressed up against his own, and he can feel that she’s shaking, almost as badly as he is.

“You look—” Bev says, and then makes a noise, a little gasp of breathless euphoria. “_God_, Ben.”

“Move,” he begs. “Bev, please, _move_.”

She does, slowly. A long drag out, and then a white-hot thrust back in. Ben’s grabbing the sheets so tightly he would worry about ripping them if he had the mental capability to care about it.

He’s a lot noisier than he expected to be, making these soft little _uh uh uh _noises that feel like they’re getting punched free. It’s not that he’s especially quiet in bed, but he never really hears himself because Bev is always kind of loud. Not now, though. The only sound she’s making is the loud, ragged way she’s breathing.

And then she says, “I wish I could see your face.” Her voice is deeper than usual, like it’s being torn straight from her chest. “Want to see the way you take it.”

Ben groans. He wants that, too, wants to be on his back, wants to be facing her, wants his legs around her waist or propped up on her shoulders. Wants to reach for her and drag her down for a kiss, wants her leaned over him with his dick rubbing against her belly, wants to feel how deep she could get like that, bending him in half.

“God,” he whines. She’s driving into him relentlessly now, her fingers tight on his waist, a quick urgent rhythm that makes him think maybe she’s close. Is she gonna come from this, just the pressure of the harness against her clit and the sight of him spread open for her? He pictures her face, the open-mouthed way she’s panting, the red flush that has surely seeped down her neck and chest by now, and can’t help his whimper. “Bev, you — _oh — _you feel so good.”

“So do you,” she breathes back. Her hands squeeze his hips. “You gonna come for me?” she asks, her voice low and unsteady. “Gonna come on my cock?”

“Jesus,” Ben grits out, “_Bev._” And there’s suddenly no other choice but to give her what she wants, to give in to the white-hot pleasure pooling in his stomach. He comes with a shout, his entire body screwing up tight onto purple plastic, his fingers clenching the bedsheets with fervent force.

“That’s good,” Bev tells him, gasping, and she’s still _moving_, rocking into him desperately. One of her hands lifts off his hip, and he just knows she’s shoving it underneath the strap-on, touching her clit, riding her fingers to completion. She makes a high, hiccuping noise and shudders, pushing in deep one more time, and then she lets out of long, slow breath, relaxing against him. She leans her body over his, kissing his shoulder blades, the back of his neck. It sort of hurts, because her every movement reminds him of the dildo still firmly lodged inside, shoved up against places that are still hot and sensitive and throbbing. But it’s nice, too, all that warmth and pressure and the sweet slide of her lips on his skin.

“I love you,” he says, and his voice is sex-slurred, rough around the edges.

She laughs. “Bet you say that to every girl who fucks you in the ass,” she says, and then pushes herself up, slowly sliding out of him. He sucks a sharp breath through his teeth, feeling weirdly empty, but manages to roll over onto his back despite the ache.

And God, isn’t that a nice sight. Bev is red from her hair all the way down her chest, sweating a little, and she hasn’t taken the harness off yet. The fake purple dick sits between her hips, standing proud, wet-looking in a way that makes Ben blush, even after everything. She’s smiling at him, and her eyes are soft, and Ben thinks he could write an entire book of poetry dedicated to the way she looks just then, proud and satisfied and the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Nah,” he tells her. “Just you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr](hanscom.tumblr.com)!


End file.
